Say Thrice
by Missie DuCaine
Summary: Bartleby, The Scrivener, by Herman Melville. I am an old man, reader, and I was not young then, but I knew enough to know that my silent Scrivener lacked human contact above all else.


_Bartleby the Scrivener was written a very long time ago by Herman Melville, more known for Moby Dick. I do not own the story this is based upon, obviously. I blame this entirely on my American Literature course._

**Say Thrice**

I met with my one moment of enlightenment in the strange case of my scrivener, the ghostly Bartleby, on a night run long by our forced increased load of proofing. Ginger Nut had long been gone, and moments before, a deferential Nippers and a loquacious Turkey, his rambunctious attitude well explained by it being after noon, had left for their own homes. I was left alone once again in my office, save for the silent presence of Bartleby behind his green screen.

Buttoning my coat from knee to chin, I wondered to myself if perhaps Bartleby might not be entreated to leave the office, perhaps for the supper hour.

"Bartleby!"

There was no answer.

"Bartleby!" I spoke in a louder tone.

There remained no answer.

"Bartleby!" I fairly shouted.

As per his usual routine, Bartleby appeared, silent as a spirit from the grave, at the third of my summons.

"Should you come with me to take supper, with me, tonight?"

"I prefer not to," Bartleby demurred, respectfully but final, retreating back behind his screen.

He'd prefer not to, he'd prefer not to. I felt the irritation arise in my gut, but I pushed my passionate anger at this perpetual response down, determined to not be tempted into a rage over my silent scrivener. I moved to stand inside his shuttered enclosure, in the dim light of the sole window, whose view was obscured by that dingy wall. "Would you at least allow me to bring you some dish?" I inquired, tentatively.

"I would prefer not." Bartleby answered calmly, sitting mildly in his bare-cushioned chair. His eyes were as calm and sedate as they had ever been.

Swallowing my quick words, I lay tentative hand on the man's shoulder. "Tell me then, friend Bartleby, what _should_ you prefer?"

Slowly, Bartleby's placid face turned so that his pale, marble-like eyes could peer thoughtfully - the first emotion I had ever sensed in them - at my resting hand.

"Well, Bartleby?" I asked, biting my tongue against sharper requests. "What say you?"

Still, he said nothing, eyes on my digits, not meeting my eyes.

"Bartleby?" I asked a third time.

In a softer voice than even I had ever heard, Bartleby responded, "I would prefer you..."

And he paused.

A pause? I had never heard Bartleby, in his finely measured voice, pause even once. He always spoke carefully, as though he knew what his every word would be before he ever contemplated speaking it. This was, indeed, the first human weakness I had until then observed in him.

"I would prefer you stay," he said at last, muted.

"Bartleby?" I blinked at his strange request. "You would prefer I stay?"

Now I am an old man, reader, and then, too, I was not young, but I had lived on this world long enough to recognize a man who had been starved not only of sustenance in the physical sense, but also of love and affection and human companionship. As his dry, cool hand settled over mine, the tiniest and barest of smiles touching his thin lips, I smiled broadly at him.

For I am of the opinion that it is never too late for a man to feel the warmth of another's touch, a soft smile from one who cares about you. To my faithful and productive scrivener, silent and sedate, I would be happy to provide that care.

"Well then, Bartleby," I nodded then, pleased. "I shall stay. What shall we do with the time in which I remain?"

"I would prefer you sit aside me," Bartleby said, nearly faint. "I should prefer to have company throu't the night."

Sliding my hand with the utmost of gentleness from my scrivener's shoulder, from beneath his papery hand, I turned to retrieve my seat upon which I had spent my day, moving it behind his green screen so as to join him. Side by side, we sat in long silence, then I shifted, moving to remove my heavy winter coat. "Should you prefer I reset the fire, for warmth?"

He hesitated, and I demurred a moment, wondering if I might not need to ask yet twice more afore he answered, but my scrivener Bartleby startled me when, faintly, he spoke: "I would prefer that. Yes."

The recluse speaks! Pleased at this hesitant revelation, I rose to stoke the coal in the heavy stove, shedding my coat as one would an extra skin, before resuming my place at Bartleby's side. Our arms brushed at the barest points as we sat, side by side in silence, until with a nearly imperceptible degree, he leant further into me until his slight weight was borne nearly entirely on my shoulders. I instead touched my fingertips onto his arm, drawing from Bartleby a nigh on imperceptible smile.

Alone together we say in my silent law offices, til mine own drooping eyes grew too heavy, and I dozed.

I woke again when the dawn shone slightly through the blocked window, my head a rest on the bony shoulder of my scrivener, his hand laid slightly on my knee, his pale eyes focused on my face, and upon seeing me awake, he smiled faint, before rising to stoke the fire without my even requesting whether or not he would prefer it.

All my scrivener needed was the touch of a human hand and a human soul.

From that day, I endeavored to touch my scrivener's shoulder at ever chance meeting, to brush my hand against his, and my heart swelled with pride and gratitude - indeed, the very thing, gratitude - whenever his pale lips turned up even the slightest at the corners.

I had made a connection with a fellow human soul, the first one I had made in an exceedingly long time, I realized once it was made. With everything in me, I sought to maintain that.

It wasn't until he had gone from me and lay cold and still in that cell that I realized his had been the soul to make a connection with mine, not the other way, and when he was gone, so was I.

Return to Misc.

Bartleby the Scrivener copyright Herman Melville.


End file.
